


Hubris at its finest

by enthugger



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Early Mornings, Fluff, Hands, Kissing, M/M, Scars, Sleepy Cuddles, but no actual sex i guess, gratuitous sunlight metaphors, references to smutt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 19:37:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18644728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthugger/pseuds/enthugger
Summary: “Don’t leave.”He hasn’t realized Enjolras is awake and the moment he speaks, Grantaire is suddenly aware of every imperfection on display in his body, every scar, every patch of hair, every half-healed injury that has left him crooked where Enjolras is whole.After a moment, he turns around and Enjolras is there, sleep-rumpled and beautiful, blinking sunlight out of his eyes and reaching towards Grantaire with a slim-fingered hand as if he’s not horrified by the sight of him, as if Enjolras feels the same early morning serenity of the moment that he does and the same desperation not to break out of it just yet.In which Grantaire stays.





	Hubris at its finest

The first time Grantaire slips out of bed, still drunk on wine and something else that tastes like the hollow of Enjolras’s throat, he thinks he must still be dreaming.

This isn’t how it goes for him, this timeless kind of perfection, with morning breaking through too-thin curtains to paint lines of gold across Enjolras’s bare shoulders, full of the knowledge that every part of Enjolras is perfect in a way Grantaire hasn’t let himself discover until now. It’s a forbidden fruit, Paris and the apple, Helen of Troy kind of situation all over again. Because now that he’s been here, in the full blinding splendor of Enjolras’s affections, how on earth will he ever go back to the mindlessness of himself. Even now, when he is practically in paradise, there is nothing Grantiare hates more than the inside of his own head.

Which is why he finds himself desperate to escape.

The moment his feet touch the floor, Enjolras stirs, as if on cue, and Grantaire freezes. There are things about this scene that he’s not sure are meant to be faced in the daylight: marks on his shoulders and down his chest, his own fingerprints on Enjolras’s pale thighs like a blueprint. A map to something too little and too late, Grantaire thinks. The only things broken here are ones that can’t be so easily fixed.

“Don’t leave.” He hasn’t realized Enjolras is awake and the moment he speaks, Grantaire is suddenly aware of every imperfection on display in his body, every scar, every patch of hair, every half-healed injury that has left him crooked where Enjolras is whole.

After a moment, he turns around and Enjolras is there, sleep-rumpled and beautiful, blinking sunlight out of his eyes and reaching towards Grantaire with a slim-fingered hand as if he’s not horrified by the sight of him, as if Enjolras feels the same early morning serenity of the moment that he does and the same desperation not to break out of it just yet.

When Grantaire takes his hand, Enjolras brings it to his lips, pressing gentle kisses to the tops of Grantaire’s knuckles. Grantaire almost believes him.

“Why are you leaving?” Enjolras asks, the kind of sincerity in his voice that always makes Grantaire desperate to obey.

“I’m scared,” he says softly, more of a truth than he’s even told to himself, his hand tight around Enjolras’s in a sort of apology. He knows that fear has no place here in the dapples of sunlight and the warmth of a body against his own and wine-dark bruises on pale skin. He swallows, forces himself to continue, “mortals aren’t supposed to tarry in the faerie realms and all that.”

Enjolras laughs softly; it’s a sound Grantiare is always realizing how much he misses, always realizing how little he’s heard it lately.

“I’m just as mortal as you are.” Enjolras tugs on his hand and with a sort of reluctance, he moves closer, pulling his legs back under the blankets.

“Look,” Enjolras pushes their conjoined hands towards him, holding his thumb out for Grantaire to inspect. “I closed it in a drawer a few years ago.” Grantaire can see the thin white scar that runs from the base of his hand to his knuckle, straight and smooth and so pale it almost blends into his skin.

Grantaire covers it with his own thumb, bigger and rougher in comparison.

“That must have been a vindictive drawer.”

Enjolras smiles. “I was in a rush. I was trying to hide something.”

“What were you hiding?”

The silence that follows is more telling than any answer and instead, Enjolras moves his hand up to run a finger gently down the crooked bridge of Grantaire’s nose.

“It was broken,” he murmurs, distinctly aware of how close Enjolras’s hand is to his face, imagining how easy it would be to take those long slender fingers into his mouth. “Never healed right.”

“Boxing?” Enjolras asks, his voice is soft, almost reverent in a way Grantaire doesn’t quite understand.

“Bar fight,” he admits and Enjolras frowns very slightly, but doesn’t say anything else, still tracing lightly around the contours of Grantaire’s face with his free hand.

And if this is hubris, it is hubris at its finest. There is nothing Grantaire could have done with his life to make the universe align so perfectly in his favor.

Enjolras seems to finish his exploration of Grantaire’s features and his hand comes to rest instead against the hollow of Grantaire’s throat, a touch so feather-light it is almost nothing.

“R, can I-” Enjolras’s words are soft breaths against his jaw. He leans forward into the space between them and then they are kissing and the small of Enjolras’s back is smooth and warm beneath Grantaire’s hands and if this is the question being asked, Grantaire thinks he will never stop saying yes.

This time, the sun is a warm patch of light around them and Enjolras winds himself into Grantaire’s arms, comfortable and close and undeniably real.

And that’s the thing about sunlight, when it’s not blinding, it warms the early morning melancholy in the corners of his mind so perfectly that it almost feels like they’re gone. Grantaire can’t tell if this warmth is from the sun or from Enjolras curled tightly around him and for now, he can’t bring himself to care.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on [ tumblr](https://williamvapespeare.tumblr.com/) to kinkshame me (and/or to talk or whatever)


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